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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25856263">The Ghosts of our Fathers</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/primalrage/pseuds/primalrage'>primalrage</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Loss, First Time Blow Jobs, Grief/Mourning, Intimacy, Loss of Parent(s), Loss of Virginity, M/M, Non-graphic mention of a past rape, Porn with Feelings, Praise Kink, Sharing a Bed, Spoilers, Tearjerker, Touch-Starved</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 06:34:47</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>11,023</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25856263</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/primalrage/pseuds/primalrage</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack Marston is returning to Beecher's Hope from town when he realizes someone has broken into his home. This would-be thief has picked the wrong gunslinger to steal from.</p><p>But then Jack sees this stranger's face, and it's like looking at a ghost. Is it possible... did Arthur Morgan survive?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jack Marston/Isaac Morgan</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>25</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Ghosts of our Fathers</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I've had this written for about ten billion years (well, since the second game came out) but I really never thought I'd polish and post it. I know Jack is so unpopular in this fandom, so I kept this half-finished and forgotten for like a year and a half now. I recently decided - what the hell, I'll throw this on AO3. If no one likes Jack enough to read it, then THEIR LOSS </p><p>This was intended to be a one-shot, but honestly? I could see myself returning to it in the future. IDK. Let me know what you think ~</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It is noon in Blackwater when the doors of the saloon swing open and a man walks in. He is dressed like a rancher but has the mean, scarred face of an outlaw, and his body is criss-crossed with gun belts. His dark, narrowed eyes scan the bar and then the tables, before locking on to a stranger seated by the window. </p><p>"Mr. Marston?" the stranger asks. </p><p>"Mr. Coffey."</p><p>Coffey stands to shake hands, and then they sit. Both men look out of place here - Marston in his outdated cowboy clothes, and Coffey with his well-pressed suit and meticulously groomed hair. The city of Blackwater lies somewhere on the spectrum between their two extremes, a place born from the now-dead spirit of the Wild West that has since grown into somewhere respectable. </p><p>Coffey is not shy about studying the other man, whom he has been in communication with via the post for many months now. This is their first meeting in-person, and he feels that his father, founder of Coffey Publishing House, did a poor job of preparing him for this meeting. Jack Marston, their most profitable client of the last decade, looks nothing like the other authors he is accustomed to working with. In fact, Coffey is astonished this man can even read, let alone write such poignant prose. What is the saying? One can't judge a book by its cover. But as a man about to inherit an entire publishing house, Coffey spends a lot of time thinking about book covers. </p><p>"It's good to finally meet you, Mr. Marston," Coffey says. </p><p>"Jack."</p><p>"Of course. <em>Jack,</em>" he corrects himself, offering Jack Marston an apologetic smile. He isn't just making pleasant conversation; he's glad to finally put a face to the name. He has been a fan of Jack Marston's books for years now.</p><p>"Did your father warn you that I like to be paid in small bills?" </p><p>"Oh! Cutting straight to the chase, aren't we, Jack?" Coffey teases him, but when Jack only stares back, he clears his throat and dives for his suitcase under the table. He flips open the clasps and digs around inside. "All small bills, yes. Just as your contract specifies!"</p><p>When Coffey pulls out the leather money pouch, Jack grabs for it, but then doesn't count the contents. </p><p>"You know, Jack my father and I agree - it would be much more convenient for you to allow us to set up a bank account for you. You could - " </p><p>"No."</p><p>Coffey swallows. His father has told him that Jack Marston doesn't trust banks, but it makes no sense to him. As a best-selling author, Jack is making far too much money to keep it all under a loose floorboard or in a mattress. In the early years, when Jack had just signed on with Coffey Publishing House, it was easy to humor his paranoia, but these constant trips out west grow into more and more of a hassle. </p><p>"Thank you, Mr. Coffey," Jack says, and he rises to his feet, their business concluded. This is one thing Coffey Senior has warned his son - no matter how many times he has met Jack in this saloon, Jack has always refused to stay for drinks or conversation. He is a borderline recluse. </p><p>"No, Jack, thank <em>you</em> for your continued business."</p><p>"I should have a new manuscript mailed to you by the holidays."</p><p>"Oh! So soon?" Coffey is excited; he can smell a new wave of income on the air. "Would you like to tell me about your next book?"</p><p>"No." </p><p>Coffey has to try hard not to react to this blatant disrespect. It's Jack Marston's cold, killer's eyes and the gun on his hip that keep the brown-nosing smile plastered on his face. "Well, before you go, I just wanted to tell you that I am a huge fan of yours. I've always wondered if you plan on writing anything more about those outlaws from your first book? I think a sequel would thrill your readers."</p><p>"They're dead," Jack says, "The characters, I mean. They all died. You say you read the book, so you should know."</p><p>"Well, you only specified some of their fates!" Coffey protests, "You could write an adventure about that Sadie Adler woman! We never hear from her again. And, you know, times are changing! There's a real market now of female readers. Or... well, personally, if you don't mind me saying so, Jack... I'd <em>love </em>to read more about Arthur Morgan. You imply that he's going off to face his death, but we never know for certain what his fate was."</p><p>"He died. I've seen his grave," Jack says.</p><p>"Well, yes, of course, but <em>readers </em>don't know that he died. Anything is possible in fiction! Perhaps he overcame his illness and survived the fight on the mountain? It would be such an exciting twist!"</p><p>Jack stares hard at the man, but he can't settle on a reaction. He's mad, but this isn't the first time he's heard this. In fact, when his novel was first published, many reviews begged for real closure for Arthur Morgan. It had not been a scene that Jack was willing to write. He lost Uncle Arthur once and has, blissfully, very limited memories of the event. The last thing he wants now is to reopen those old wounds. But, at the same time, he does pity Mr. Coffey, just as he pities everyone who reads and loves his book without ever having the pleasure of meeting Arthur Morgan in person. </p><p>"Good day, Mr. Coffey," he says, and he turns and leaves the saloon without another word. </p><p>His horse, Sugar, is waiting outside. He's never grown out of his dislike for horses, but she's an old mare, and age has made her gentle and complaisant. He presses a hand to her warm, soft nose and, for a moment, thinks he might cry. A grown ass man crying in the streets of Blackwater. They'll lock him up for sure. He laughs, clears his throat, and swings up into his saddle. </p><p>Jack regrets writing the book about the Van der Linde Gang. He curses the day he found Arthur Morgan's journal among his father's old belongings. It becomes more and more difficult to talk with readers every passing day, so he has alienated himself from them all. As bad as they want him to bring Arthur Morgan back, he wants it even more. He wishes, too, that he could bring his parents back from the dead. He would bring every single one of them back, if he could. Even the others who turned rotten in the end. He misses Pearson saving the best pieces of meat for him or gifting him with little trinkets carved from antlers or bones. He misses sitting at Javier's feet and listening to him play guitar. He misses going to Hosea when his mother and father were arguing, or when his mother got overwhelmed and needed to be alone, and how Hosea would hold him and tell him stories until he didn't feel alone anymore. There are nights, lying awake sick from his own memories, that he'd give anything in the world to talk to any of them, from Dutch Van der Linde to Miss Grimshaw, and everyone in between. The worst part of it all is that, as he gets older, he remembers less and less. In fact, only Uncle Arthur's face is the one he can remember with any clarity now. Maybe because he spent so many days and nights staring up at him and wishing Arthur would let him be his son instead.</p><p>He knows that some of them are still alive out there. He has thought about using his money to try and track them down, but perhaps they deserve to be free from their past in a way that Jack cannot be. Once, after his book had first been released, Mary-Beth Gaskill showed up on his doorstep. She wept over Jack, exclaiming how big he was and how much he looked like his father. He had not even recognized her, because she looked so much older than he had recalled. By that point, Mary-Beth was already a successful novelist in her own right. They still send each other letters, sometimes, and her presence in his life, even though it is small, is cathartic. Besides Mary-Beth, the only other person from his past to make an appearance has been Josiah Trelawny. He had also tracked Jack down after reading his book. His sons, Tarquin and Cornelius, are close to Jack's age and are friendly with him. He makes certain to visit the Trelawny family whenever he finds himself in Saint Denis, which isn't often. More and more, he withdraws into Beecher's Hope and refuses to step foot outside. </p><p>Beecher's Hope isn't the isolated ranch outside of Blackwater that it used to be. Blackwater has grown, and more and more land nearby has been purchased by strangers and built upon. Jack has had to buy many adjacent plots just to prevent neighbors from moving in. Sometimes, he thinks about heading further out west, but then he remembers the graves of his mother, father, and infant sister, as well Rufus's and Uncle's. The thought of abandoning them sparks anxiety inside of him, enough to make him want to vomit. He knows their resting places will be dug up, and some kind of street or train station will be built there instead. He cannot allow that to happen. So he is anchored to this land against his will. </p><p>It's a long ride back to the ranch, because Sugar's gait is so slow. Although, can Beecher's Hope be called a ranch anymore? He rents out the use of his pastures to other ranches. Aside from his couple of horses, all he keeps are chickens and a small trip of goats. Dogs, too, of course. He loves dogs. And his mother's favorite cat is still alive; she and her kittens, which are now fully-grown cats themselves, keep mice from the barns. He makes sure to keep all of the animals fed and cared for, but he doesn't do the obsessive farm work that he should. He's lucky if he remembers to milk the goats and collect eggs from the hen house each day. It makes him feel guilty. His parents were poor ranchers themselves, but he owes them to do better.</p><p>Even if he could bring them back, he often thinks, they'd die again to see what he has become. A half-assed rancher who makes money writing books? It's like his father's worst nightmare. </p><p>Uncle Dutch and Uncle Hosea would have understood. And Uncle Arthur. Always Arthur.</p><p>It is late afternoon when Sugar finally approaches his property. The hottest part of the day is over, and there is a breeze that cools the sweat on Jack's brow beneath the brim of his hat and tousles his long hair. He can tell that something is wrong in an instant. His dogs are barking like wild, not the barking they sometimes do when they play rough together or chase crows off the land, but real, aggressive barking. Like when wolves or coyotes have squeezed under the fences. Jack nudges Sugar into a gallop towards the house. </p><p>There's an unusual horse grazing next to the porch, a mighty chestnut that's got to be close to seventeen hands tall. Jack wouldn't be alarmed by that alone, but all the dogs are circling the perimeter of the building and barking with their hackles raised. He slides off Sugar's back and whistles, and the dogs rush to his side with their tails wagging, their alarm forgotten, all except his little hound mix Daisy, who continues pawing at the front door as though she's trying to dig her way inside. </p><p>"Go to place!" he shouts, and the dogs all scurry off to the barn, just the way he's trained them. Daisy ignores him still, whining and clawing at the door. He gently nudges her away with a boot, tells her she's a good girl, and repeats his command. This time, she does as she's told, although it's obvious from the tension in her muscles that she's only doing so reluctantly. </p><p>Jack doesn't like this one bit. He puts his hand on his holstered revolver, and the rush of adrenaline he feels when the warm metal touches his palm makes him hate himself a little more than he already does. It's been years since he's had to put a bullet into any living thing, but he's inherited his father's almost legendary aim. A man doesn't forget how to shoot, when he's a natural at it the way Jack Marston is. With his left hand, he twists the knob, easing the door open just a crack. Then he raises his revolver and elbows his way inside. </p><p>A broad-shouldered man has his back to the door. He's digging in some drawers in the hall. Jack points the gun straight to his head. "What the hell are you doin' in my house?" Jack says, his tone calm but icy. </p><p>The man spins around. His pistol is drawn before Jack even notices. </p><p>His face...</p><p>Jack gasps. He fumbles, drops his revolver. "U-Uncle Arthur?" Jack's eyes fill with tears, and before he can stop himself, he is crying. </p><p>It is like Mr. Coffey's question at the saloon earlier today has manifested in the flesh. Arthur Morgan is there, living and breathing. </p><p>His visitor lowers his gun. He looks surprised, then uncomfortable. "Sorry, no."</p><p>It's only then that Jack realizes it isn't Arthur Morgan at all. Close, certainly, but not quite right. This man has the same thick, light brown hair and those honest blue eyes, but he is younger than Arthur would be today, possibly even younger than Arthur was when Jack had known him alive. His jaw is a bit softer and narrower, too, and his nose a little straighter. He also seems shorter than Jack remembers the giant Arthur Morgan to have been, but that may be more due to fault in Jack's memories, or perhaps the fact that Jack has grown into a tall man himself in the two decades since he last saw Arthur alive. He doesn't know how to react, although he does raise a sleeve to dry his damp cheeks. He's mad that this intruder is digging through his things, and he's embarrassed that the sight of him has drawn up a flood of raw emotions. </p><p>"Are you Jack Marston?" the lookalike asks. </p><p>Jack takes a breath to steady himself. "What business is it of yours?"</p><p>They stare at each other across the dusty room. The physical similarities between this would-be thief and Arthur have Jack's mind reeling. That crooked smile that touches just one corner of his lips. The way his brows knit together while he studies Jack's face. Even his voice, deep and slow, is that of Arthur Morgan's. "Is Arthur really your Uncle?" the stranger asks. </p><p>"Yes," Jack says, "Well, we ain't related by blood, but yes. He's my Uncle. Now are you gonna tell me why you're here lookin' through all my things?"</p><p>"Because Arthur Morgan was my father."</p><p>The house goes so silent that they can hear the insects buzzing outside. Jack studies that familiar face, feeling his stomach twist into knots in his gut. "Liar," he spits out, "Arthur had no children. I woulda known if he did. I was with him close to every day of my life til he died."</p><p>The man shakes his head and puts his gun back into its holster. "I'm sorry, but I'm not lying. My name is Isaac Morgan."</p><p>"Maybe it is," Jack says, "but I have a feelin' you read my book and got ideas in your head to try and take me for a fool. Arthur Morgan's only family was the Van der Linde Gang."</p><p>"Please," this man claiming to be called Isaac Morgan begs with him, "I'm not trying to take advantage of you in any way. I'm not here to steal your money. I just came looking for my father's journal."</p><p>"<em>What</em>?" Jack has never mentioned Arthur's journal to anyone. In fact, he doesn't even think his mother ever knew his father had it. He certainly hadn't known about it himself until after both their deaths. He wants to ask - <em>how do you know about the journal? </em>- but before he can force his gaping mouth to form those words, Isaac is answering anyway.</p><p>"I know my father kept one. He took notes about everything, and he was quite a talented artist. I assumed that was how you wrote your book. I felt certain you must have it in your possession," Isaac says. </p><p>"I... Well... You ain't wrong. I got his journal," Jack admits, "But...I don't understand... Why wouldn't he tell me about you?" </p><p>He realizes, though, that Arthur <em>had </em>told him about his son on multiple occasions over the years, but he had always done so indirectly. So many times, in conversation, he had shared with Jack his memories of another little boy. When they went fishing, he talked about how there had once been another little boy he had taken fishing. When Jack begged him for a story before bedtime, Arthur had a story memorized that another little boy had once asked to hear. When Arthur had sat in the grass making daisy chains with him, he reminisced on afternoons doing the same with another little boy. There had <em>always </em>been this vague "another little boy." Had his parents known? His father had always forbidden talk of Arthur Morgan or of anyone from their past. </p><p>"I think my father might have thought I was dead," Isaac says, "Will you let me explain?"</p><p>Jack knows it will bother him the rest of his life if he doesn't hear the truth, so he decides to let Isaac talk. He nods and gestures for Isaac to sit down. He does, taking a seat on the couch, and Jack can't help but gawk at him - it's like Arthur Morgan himself has settled in his living room. He can't wrap his head around this. If he didn't look the spitting image of his father, Jack would never have believed Isaac was anything but a nutcase or a swindler, but there is no denying the family resemblance. </p><p>"My parents were never married or anything like that," Isaac begins, once Jack has taken a chair in front of the fireplace, "My mother raised me alone, but I was not fatherless. He used to come by every so often with gifts and money, and he'd spend a couple of days with us at a time before running back off to the gang. I think I even met Dutch Van der Linde himself, once. My father was teaching me to play dominoes on the porch. I was maybe five or six years old? Dutch sat with us to play for a while. I don't really remember him, I just remember watching the man ride up on an albino horse. Whiter than snow."</p><p>"The Count."</p><p>Isaac grins, "After reading your book, yeah. I believe it was The Count. I couldn't stop staring. I'd never seen a more beautiful horse in my life. Dutch let me beat him at dominoes, and then he gave me a whole dollar bill! I thought I was the richest kid on Earth that day."</p><p>Jack sinks back into his chair with a broad smile on his face. He sighs, "Yep. Sounds like Dutch." </p><p>"What was he like?" Isaac asks, leaning forward in the couch, closer to Jack.</p><p>Jack stares hard at Isaac, and he struggles to find words. His whole life, his father has silenced his memories. Mention of Arthur or Dutch or any of their names was enough to start a fight. And, now? To be asked for that information? He felt deliriously happy. "I wish I remembered more," he admitted, "I was so little, y'know? But Dutch was capable of bein' one man one second and a different man the next. I saw him do good things and I saw him do scary things. He was always good to me, though. He liked to read to me. He had a phonograph with all this terrible old stuffy music on it, but when I was real little, I used to dance with him to the songs."</p><p>Isaac laughs, slapping his thigh. "The bastard had wanted posters all over every town, and you <em>danced </em>with him! What a wild childhood you must have had, Jack Marston."</p><p>"I did, I guess," Jack says, and he's smiling so big that his cheeks hurt. He's aware of a familiar stinging in his eyes, but he's determined not to get emotional in front of this stranger, so he distracts himself by fingering the frayed threads in the arm of his chair. </p><p>"What was my daddy like?" Isaac asks.</p><p>Jack swallows. How can he begin to describe Arthur? Why are his lungs suddenly struggling to fill with air? </p><p>"I'm sorry," Isaac says, placing a massive hand on Arthur's knee, "I know this must be a lot. I shouldn't have surprised you like this."</p><p>"You shouldn't have tried to steal the damn journal from me," Jack manages to squeak out, but he still can hardly breathe.</p><p>"Yeah... sorry about that," Isaac says. His hand remains on Jack's knee, and it's strangely comforting.</p><p>Jack inhales, holds it and counts to three, then exhales. The air doesn't seem to go in very deep. "No, it's okay." Is he telling Isaac, or trying to convince himself? "It's funny, really. Even when I was writin' my book, I never really though about him in a concrete way like this. My mind was blank. It was like I was in a trance. I never let myself really mourn."</p><p>"That was how I felt reading it," Isaac says, "It was easier not to think about him than to hurt myself missing him. The last time I saw him, I was maybe seven or eight."</p><p>Jack looks at the man, guesses his age - it doesn't add up. Isaac was older than seven or eight when Arthur died. He might have even been a teenager by then. "What happened?" he asks, "You said he thought you was dead?"</p><p>"Yeah... Well, my aunt and cousins came into town. We were having cake, everyone was being loud and having a good time. It must have been someone's birthday. Then suddenly... I'll never forget... <em>Bam! </em>The door was kicked in. A whole bunch of men burst into the house wearing kerchiefs on their faces. For one absolutely stupid second, I thought it was my daddy surprising us."</p><p>Now it is Isaac's turn to struggle. He sinks into the couch cushions and rubs at his face with the heels of his hands. Jack lurches forward, into the couch beside him, and he puts a hand on the man's shoulder. "You don't gotta tell me, if you don't wanna," Jack says.</p><p>"No, it's okay," Isaac says, and he clears his throat to continue, "They shot my oldest cousin first. He was around fifteen at the time. Died in an instant. There was blood everywhere. I just remember how red the floor was. My aunt was screaming. All the kids were screaming. All I could do was stare at the red."</p><p>Jack sighs, "I remember feelin' that way when my father got murdered."</p><p>"John Marston was murdered?" Isaac asks.</p><p>Jack gives a bitter, humorless laugh, "Yeah. That didn't make it into the book."</p><p>"What happened?" </p><p>"You finish your story, then I'll tell you mine."</p><p>So Isaac closes his eyes and returns to that awful night. In his lap, his hands clench into fists, "I think my mother had ten dollars on her. It was all we had saved up. My aunt had a couple more, and they took her wedding ring, too. She was basically hysterical. She wouldn't stop crying. I know she was sad, but at the time, I couldn't help it - it was so annoying. I just wanted her to shut up so I could think, so I could process what was happening. My mother went outside with them... I was too young to understand at the time, but I think she offered herself to them as long as they wouldn't harm any more of the children. We could hear her crying while they took turns assaulting her. My aunt came to her senses, then. She held me in her lap and covered my ears. I didn't know what was happening, but since they weren't in the house anymore, I felt like thing would be okay. Hah. I was so naive."</p><p>"I'm sorry." </p><p>Isaac shrugs. "They shot her when they were done. Shot her and left. My aunt and cousins dug two graves, and then we fled. My aunt raised me like her own. I was seventeen when she told me that she made her son's grave look like it was mine. She didn't want my father to come looking for me. She thought that what happened to her son and her sister was thanks to his lifestyle. I was mad, but I didn't blame her. He wasn't a good man. I can't lie, though... I'm a little hurt that he never mentioned me."</p><p>"No," Jack says, "He was a good man. Most of them was good men, but life backed 'em into a corner. I'm sure the only reason he didn't mention you was because he was hurtin' from losin' you. He wouldn't have let you meet Dutch if you wasn't important to him."</p><p>Isaac smiles, "Thanks, Jack. You've really made me feel a lot better. I suppose that's the writer in you, hmm? You know what to say."</p><p>Jack feels his face heat up. He's been given compliments on his books for years, but it's those words from Isaac that really matter to him. "The book was all based on your father's journal. It was more him than me."</p><p>"But he wasn't a poet. The words are yours."</p><p>A silence settles over the two men, but, really, what is there to say? Jack and Isaac both stare at each other without reserve. They let their gaze take in every detail of each other, and it doesn't feel obtrusive. In fact, they're both glad to be together in that moment. Two sons, united in being fatherless.</p><p>Jack realizes that Isaac's eyes are actually different than Arthur's. They're a truer, more beautiful blue. </p><p>Then, Isaac says, "Can I see the journal? I won't steal it, I swear."</p><p>Jack had nearly forgotten. He rises from the couch. The journals are in a drawer in his parents' room. He goes in there, sometimes, to remember John and Abigail Marston, but he hasn't been able to do anything with their room since the day his mother died. Tarquin Trelawny once offered to help him move out the furniture, while Cornelius Trelawny jokes that, at this point, Jack might as well fence it all off and call it a museum. He supposes that his whole life, he avoided facing his grief. He has so much of it, and yet he's always refused to touch it, just like he refuses to touch his mother's and father's bedroom furniture. Maybe it stems from his father's refusal to talk about the past all of those years. </p><p>But now, with Isaac Morgan in his living room, this is all too much for him. He sits down on the bed that once belonged to his dead parents, and he can't stop the flood of tears that comes without warning.</p><p>He thinks how proud Uncle Dutch and Uncle Hosea would be of him for pursuing his dreams of writing, for not allowing his father to crush his imagination and creativity, and for taking advantage of his brains instead of his brawn. He was too young to understand what had happened to break up the gang, and has no memories of when things went bad. All he can remember is bouncing on Dutch's or Hosea's knee at the campfire, the comforting smell of Dutch's pipe tobacco that always clung to his clothes, or listening to Hosea tell him tales from the Bible. He hates how they didn't get to see him grow up into a man. </p><p>He thinks about Uncle Bill with his horse Brown Jack. Jack had been obsessed with the horse because it had shared his name. He remembers the thing seeming to be gigantic, a monster of a horse, and despite how much those animals terrified him as a toddler, he used to like helping Bill wash him down. Sometimes, Bill would let him ride in front of him on the saddle, and he felt so tall up there on Brown Jack's back. </p><p>And the memories start to hit him like slaps - Uncle Sean trying to show him how to spit "like a man," Miss Grimshaw singing to him as she scrubbed him in the bath, Uncle Javier teaching him words in Spanish that he's long since forgotten, the way Uncles Mac and Davey always used to let him ride on their shoulders, how Uncle Lenny sat for hours and tolerated Jack reading aloud to him as he had been learning - God! All of them! They're all gone! Everyone in the whole world who has ever cared about him is dead. He's sobbing, choking for air as he sees Uncle dying right in front of him again, just outside this house. He can still recall, like it was yesterday, being on his hands and knees in the barn, scrubbing his father's blood and guts off the floor and walls. And he will never, ever forget Arthur Morgan. Until the day he dies, he will remember the man who he had always wished to be his real father.</p><p>"Jack?"</p><p>Jack whips his head around. Isaac is standing in the doorway, half in the room and half still in the hallway. Jack laughs, embarrassed, and wipes his tears away on his sleeve. "Sorry," he says, "I never really let myself miss these folks. Talkin' to you about the past is really messin' with my head."</p><p>Isaac smiles. He crosses the room and sits on the bed beside Jack, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. "I think it's good to cry sometimes, Jack. You don't have to be so tough."</p><p>Jack takes several slow, deep breaths, trying to calm his sobbing. "Yeah," he says, "Honestly? I feel a lot better. I think I needed to cry it all out, or else I was gonna lose it."</p><p>Isaac reaches up to thumb the last of his tears away. Jack was a child the last time anyone was this close to him. He stares into those eyes, the color of the sky, and he is pulled into their depths. Jack thinks, astonished, <em>he is going to kiss me. </em>And he does. </p><p>Isaac's lips press to Jack's, and his tongue sweeps just once across Jack's mouth before retreating. He waits there, so close Jack can feel his breath against his face, the tips of their noses touching ever so lightly. Jack doesn't understand why he's hesitating. He has never been kissed before, and he is screaming internally for Isaac to keep going. All the hairs on his body stand on end. A heartbeat later - he understands. Isaac is waiting for him to do something, either lean in or pull away. The realization makes him smile. He moves closer for more.</p><p>Isaac slides a hand up and knocks off Jack's hat. His fingers weave into Jack's hair, bringing him in to close the gap between their mouths. Jack parts his lips for him, welcoming his tongue in with a sigh. Isaac's kiss is sure and insistent, and it more than makes up for Jack's lack of experience. His brain is swimming. He feels intoxicated, giddy, wild... "Yes," he whispers, not meaning to speak the word out loud. </p><p>His eyes flutter closed as Isaac lowers him back onto the bed. Isaac's body is firm and sturdy above him, and his tongue is soft and gentle, but demanding. Jack can't kiss him back hard enough, no matter how he tries. Where should his hands go? He doesn't know where to put them. They slide all over Isaac, up and down his well-built body, sinking into the fabric of his clothes.</p><p><em>Oh, no, </em>he thinks. He's kissing Isaac Morgan. What would his parents think? What would Arthur think? </p><p>"Is this some kinda trick?" he asks, pulling free for some air, "To take the journal while my guard is down?"</p><p>Isaac laughs and grabs him by the chin. The grip makes Jack feel dizzy. He looks up at Isaac through heavy-lidded eyes, his heart slamming against his ribs. "Do you really think that?" Isaac asks, his fingertips digging into Jack's jaw.</p><p>"Well, we are both sons of men who had skewed morals," Jack replies.</p><p>"Let's not talk about our fathers right now," Isaac tells him, "Let's talk about nothing. We can put our mouths to other, better uses. Can I take some of this stuff off of you?"</p><p>Jack squirms beneath him, and anxiety sparks in his dark eyes. </p><p>"We'll take it slow," Isaac adds, calming him with another deep, slow kiss. </p><p>Jack nods, and Isaac raises him off the mattress and peels his clothes away from him in a loving, almost motherly way - his gun belts, his bandanna, his coat. He keeps just Jack's shirt and jeans on, as a barrier between their burning skin. Then they fall back into a tangle together, chest to chest, and Isaac's mouth is like fire on Jack's throat. All Jack can think, nearly hysteric with nerves, is that he is so damn glad he bathed that morning before heading out to meet his publisher's son. </p><p>The moments melt away in that bed. Maybe they're kissing for hours. Isaac seems fearless, his kisses going everywhere, and it's all Jack can do to try and catch them with his own lips. Isaac doesn't mind if Jack sometimes forgets himself and lies for minutes at a time in a daze of bliss, letting Isaac do all the work. Each time, Jack will snap to his senses with a shudder or a sigh, his mouth latches on to Isaac and more than makes up for the seconds of stunned inactivity. He is needy, frantic, and sometimes Isaac must pull away from him to calm things down. He will soothe him with sweet, comforting whispers and strokes to his stubbled cheeks. </p><p>Jack wants to thank Isaac for touching him this way, because it's unlike anything he's ever known before, but he also wants to thank Isaac for being so careful with him. He feels fragile and broken there, beneath Isaac's strong and study body, and Isaac is taking care of him so perfectly. Whenever he opens his mouth, struggling to find words, Isaac's lips are on his again, and all that spills out are moans and mewls. </p><p>"Oh, fuck, yes, Jack," rumbles Isaac's low voice, "I like it when you make those noises for me. Good boy."</p><p>The words have Jack's head spinning. The scalding-hot desire is cooking his brain. All he can do is whimper some more in response.</p><p>Those broad hands are so possessive over Jack's body, roaming like they own him, and Jack is glad to feel like he belongs to somebody else for once. His heart is pounding so hard that he wonders, whenever Isaac's groping touches pass over his chest, if Isaac can feel his pulse. Isaac cannot feel his heartbeat, but he does feel the growing bulge of Jack's cock through the tent of denim. He wraps his arms around Jack's back, pulls his body in closer. He rolls his hips against him. Jack sobs, lurches off the bed, his lips spread in a perfect <em>O </em>of rapture. Isaac moves against him again, and Jack shudders, becoming weak and boneless in his arms. </p><p>"<em>I-Isaac, I -</em> "</p><p>Isaac devours the following syllables in more kisses. Jack is so devastated by that sublime mouth that he can barely react. He has no control over any part of his body. All he can do is cling to Isaac and let animal noises escape him. </p><p>"We'll take it slow," Isaac repeats to reassure him again. He can tell Jack is new to this, and the sloppy, neediness of Jack's kisses makes him think Jack's never even been kissed before, either, so he will not jump into things, even though he wants to so badly. "Can I put my mouth on you?" </p><p>"Of course," Jack sighs. Hasn't he been doing that anyway, for the past minutes or hours or days or millennia? But then Isaac's hands slide down to his thighs, and Jack understands what he means. His face burns so hot that it hurts. Is Isaac going to put his mouth <em>there</em>? Jack is no idiot. He's known since childhood that was a thing people did, a thing that felt good, but it's always seemed like a thing that happens to other people. Not to him. "I-Isaac..."</p><p>He thinks to stop him, but he does not. Instead he looks down the length of his body and watches, astonished, as Isaac's fingers unzip his jeans.  Time moves in slow motion for Jack, as Isaac's hand slips into the fly. He feels like he should admit to Isaac that no one has ever touched him there, only his own hands on lonely nights, but as soon as Isaac's clammy palm cups his hardened flesh, Jack jerks from head to toe, and all thoughts go flying out of his mind. "Isaac!" he breathes.</p><p>"Oh, yes," Isaac coos at him, "What a good boy."</p><p>It makes no sense to Jack, how those words can have him coming unraveled. Isaac only has ten years on him, at most. They're both grown men, but when Isaac speaks to him that way, Jack feels as helpless as a child, and all he can do is spread his legs and say, "<em>Please</em>."</p><p>Isaac chuckles, and the sound is sweet as honey to Jack's ears. He grips Jack's flesh and frees it from its denim cage. His cock is so sensitive that even the air of the room is almost too much for Jack. He's afraid he'll cum any second, before Isaac even gets a chance to show him what he plans to do. </p><p><em>"Hurry,"</em> he begs Isaac, looking up at him with pleading, puppy-dog eyes. </p><p>"Don't tell me what to do, Jack," Isaac teases him, and he lowers his head, pressing a kiss to the weeping tip of Jack's cock. Isaac flicks his tongue across his lips, tasting Jack's sweetness, and he closes his eyes and sighs, as though it's the best taste he's known in his life.</p><p>Jack writhes beneath him. He can hardly take this. Isaac is too perfect, too good. "You idiot!" he growls, "I'm gonna cum before we even get to do anything, if you don't cut that shit out."</p><p>Isaac laughs at him again, "That's okay, Jack. Like I said, we're going to take this real slow. You cum whenever you need to."</p><p>"But what about you?" Jack asks.</p><p>"Don't you worry about me," Isaac purrs, "In fact, I don't want you to worry about anything ever again."</p><p>He puts his mouth to Jack again, leaving a trail of kisses down the length of Jack's cock. His mouth comes to rest right at the base, and he suckles on the sensitive skin there while his fingers knead Jack's balls. For Jack, it's like gunshots going off in his skull. He never knew anything could feel so good. He has to squeeze his eyes shut, because the sight of his cock resting on Isaac's face is more than he can handle. Can he take more of this? It's almost torture. He is half-convinced that he's dreaming. Or maybe he's dead, and this is heaven? </p><p>When Isaac slips the entirety of him into his hot, silky mouth, Jack isn't even aware of the noises he's making. Isaac's head bobs up and down, up and down, his lips taut around Jack's girth. Each pull draws Jack closer and closer to filling his throat with cum. His toes and fingers curl into the quilt beneath him as he fights back his orgasm. He doesn't want this to end. In fact, he could spend the rest of his life right there beneath Isaac, and he would never go wanting for anything else.</p><p>While Isaac sucks him, his chin and cheeks becoming slick with his own saliva, he watches Jack's body language. He pays attention to the flush of pink crawling up his neck and taking over his face, the fluttering of his eyelashes, the way his breaths slip out ragged and loud. He can tell that Jack is being dragged, unwilling, towards his climax, far too quickly. He has an idea that he could keep Jack right on that edge for hours and hours, just to watch him squirm and make him miserable, but perhaps not now. Not this first time. So he begins to pump Jack's cock in his fist, while his tongue massages the swollen, leaking head, and it's mere seconds before Jack cries out, his hands flying to grip at Isaac's scalp. The climax that hits him is like a shot to the gut, it's white-hot, almost pain more than pleasure, and he's helpless to hold it in. He spills his load down the back of Isaac's throat, his cock pulsing until every last spurt has been drained, and then he has to pull Isaac away from him because he can't bare even an instant more of his delicious, wonderful mouth. </p><p>Isaac makes a show of swallowing, of licking each drop from his lips, but it's a wasted effort. Jack is sprawled back on the mattress, drenched in sweat and staring up at the ceiling. He can't even form coherent thoughts. His body is just a twitching, blitzed-out mess of nerves. "You okay, Jack?" Isaac asks him, crawling back up the length of the bed to lay at Jack's side. </p><p>"Never better," Jack admits, and he pushes his face in close to Isaac's, claiming more kisses and aware of the taste of his own salt on Isaac's tongue.</p><p>How long do they spend in that bed? Each second seems to stretch out into a perfect eternity. When dusk comes, the house fills with shadows. As reluctant as he is to separate from the comfort and warmth of Isaac's arms, Jack decides he needs to turn on some lamps before they're in total darkness. He is exhausted, and he's afraid, now that night has rolled in, that he might fall asleep and miss these precious moments with Isaac. The light will help, he thinks. If it wasn't so damn hot outside, he might even start a fire. So he makes his excuse and peels away, leaving Isaac looking like some kind of God in his parents' bed. </p><p>"Do you want some food?" Jack asks him, "Or a drink?" </p><p>Isaac looks sheepish. "I hate to be a burden, but I sure could eat something right about now."</p><p>Jack rolls his eyes. "You ain't a burden. You're the farthest thing from a burden."</p><p>Isaac rises off the bed to follow him down the hall, but, before they leave, Jack pauses. He stares into the growing shadows of his parents' room. "You okay?" Isaac asks.</p><p>Jack crosses the room, opens a drawer, and pulls out the journal. Its leather cover is worn, and the flap to keep it closed is barely holding on. "I hate to be selfish, Isaac," he says, avoiding the other man's eyes, "I wish I was strong enough to let you have this, but I ain't. Not yet. Maybe one day. So if you could let me keep it, I'd really appreciate it."</p><p>Isaac comes at him with both hands raised, but it isn't the journal he takes. He cups Jack's face in his hands and kisses him once, twice... and then they are melting into each other again. Jack's mouth is tired from all the kissing, but he can't stop himself. Nothing has ever felt so right as kissing Isaac Morgan. When they pull apart for some air, Isaac smiles down at him and says, "Jack, you keep it. And whenever I want to look at it, well, I guess I'll just have to come back out here and spend more time with you."</p><p>Jack laughs and presses the journal to Isaac's chest. "What if I want to keep you, too?" he asks. </p><p>It's Isaac's turn to laugh, and he kisses Jack on the forehead before pulling away, leading back into the living room. Jack trails after him, a little dazed and a little hurt, but of course he can't expect them to fall madly in love with each other just yet. They've only just met. Life isn't one of his novels. But that just means he'll have to work for it, if he ever intends to make Isaac his, and he's okay with that. He doubts it'll be harder than tracking down and killing his father's murderers. </p><p>He lights all the gaslamps around the room, and Isaac drops into the couch and opens the journal into his lap. Jack leaves him to it. He has lived alone for a few years now, and he maintains a bachelor's kitchen, so the most he can really do is heat up some cans of soup. As he busies himself, he can hear Isaac behind him laughing occasionally, or remarking on his father's art skills. Jack doesn't respond. He wants to leave Isaac alone with his father's words. Once he's got the soup hot, he sets the two bowls on the coffee table, served with crusty bread and two bottles of Coca-Cola. He falls into the couch beside Isaac and lets his head drop against Isaac's big arm, peering over his shoulder at the page. The touch seems to startle Isaac from his trance. He rests a hand on Jack's head and his fingers comb through his hair. </p><p>"Your mother and father... he doesn't seem to think very highly of them?"</p><p>"Well, he and my mother got along fine, far as I can remember, but he never get like my dad much. They fought like brothers. They were brothers, sort of."</p><p>"I always assumed that was your flourish to the story," Isaac admits to him, and he dives back into the pages.</p><p>Jack goes to eating, and he has to nudge Isaac to remind him to do the same. Isaac eats one-handed, the other hand still gripping the journal. He doesn't even seem to notice the food. He's absorbed in his father's world, now. </p><p>Suddenly a giant grin breaks out across his face. "He's writing about taking you fishing," he says, and then begins to quote, "<em>Jack is a good boy. A dreamer. A -"</em></p><p><em>"- boy with a Momma who loves him," </em>Jack chimes in with him, and they finish together, "<em>I wonder if he will find what we seek - peace and truth away from all this nonsense and lies." </em></p><p>Isaac is beaming. "Well? Did you?"</p><p>Jack inhales. He buys himself some time, taking a sip of his Coke. It's crazy, really - all the time spent with Arthur's words, but he's never asked himself that question. "No," he says, after some consideration, "I don't think I did. The world's ugly and dishonest as ever."</p><p>Isaac's smile falls. "Oh... I don't think so, Jack. It makes me so sad to hear you say that, when your books have so much truth and beauty and hope to them."</p><p>"You've read more of my books?" Jack asks. He has assumed, this whole time, that Isaac had only read the book about his father.</p><p>"I love them. Really, Jack. Especially the one about the two knights on the quest to rescue their queen. It reminded me of the tales about the Knights of the Round Table."</p><p>"You read those?" </p><p>"I loved them! I always pictured King Arthur as my dad."</p><p>"So did I! Since they was both named Arthur!" </p><p>They laugh together, and Isaac finishes off the last of his soup by swiping the end of his bread through it and tossing the soggy thing into his mouth. With dinner finished, they settle back into the couch. Jack nestles into Isaac's side, and Isaac drapes and arm around him, and Isaac continues to read while Jack closes his eyes and listens to Isaac's breathing. He's almost asleep when, some pages later, Isaac asks him, "Do you remember anything from when you were kidnapped?"</p><p>"Not really," Jack admits, "But I remember it wasn't bad. Plenty to eat. A real bedroom all to myself. Servants and electricity, even. I was only there a few days, though, before they found me."</p><p>Isaac chuckles, "Probably a nicer place than you or I will ever get to live in, right? At least you got the taste of the good life."</p><p>Isaac goes back to reading, and Jack decides not to tell him how much money he has saved up. He's nowhere near Angelo Bronte level of wealth, but he's definitely got enough to move into a much nicer place in a city much nicer than Blackwater.</p><p>A few flipped pages later, Jack gets up to clean the dishes and put everything away. It must be something like nine or ten o'clock now, he guesses. He doesn't want to interrupt Isaac's reading, but he has to ask, "Isaac? Are you staying the night?"</p><p>"Do you want me to?" Isaac says.</p><p>Jack smiles. <em>More than you'll ever know,</em> he wants to say, but instead he just nods. "I can get you set up in my parents' room, if you want."</p><p>"I want to sleep wherever you are, Jack," Isaac tells him, "Unless you want your space, of course. I don't mind -"</p><p>"No," Jack interrupts him, flopping back down in the couch at his side, "I'd like that, too, Isaac."</p><p>He stays up with Isaac a while longer, but the busy day into town and his orgasm have left him low on energy. Isaac notices him yawning and says, "Why don't you head on to bed? I'm almost done reading. I can join you once I've finished."</p><p>"Are you sure?" Jack asks. He doesn't want to disappoint Isaac; in fact, he had kind of been looking forward to messing around some more in bed. But Isaac is absorbed in the journal. He spends minutes with each drawing, tracing the lines with his fingers, careful not to actually touch the page and smear the pencil marks. He supposes, were someone to hand him a new journal of Arthur's that he had never seen before, he would pore over it himself with the same attentiveness and awe.</p><p>"I'm sure, Sweetheart. Go on to bed." The pet name has Jack blushing as he untangles himself and stands. He's reluctant to go, and Isaac can tell. Isaac reaches out a hand, and Jack takes it, then he pulls Jack's hand to his lips and kisses his knuckles. "I'll be in soon."</p><p>"I'll be waiting," Jack says.</p><p>He makes his way down the hall and, for a moment, hesitates. Then, instead of heading into his own bedroom, he returns to the bedroom that once belonged to his parents. The bed in there is bigger, and it somehow feels <em>right </em>to finally reclaim this space from their ghosts this way. But for quite a while, he can't decide if he wants to change into pajamas, or get naked, or just stay in his clothes. It feels silly to be ashamed of his own body, after Isaac has had him in his mouth, but he's never slept with another person in bed beside him. He decides to take off his shirt and lie down in his jeans. </p><p>He's too restless to sleep, though. Every creak of his house, he thinks Isaac is coming in, and each instance, he is disappointed. Minutes pass, but then his tired mind loses track of time. He's on the verge of slumber, his eyelids refusing to stay open, when there's a groan from the other end of the bed, and Isaac's weight is dipping the mattress as he climbs in. Jack rolls to face him. In the darkness, he can just barely make out the expression on Isaac's face. He looks very unhappy. Perhaps he was even crying.</p><p>"Are you okay?" Jack asks.</p><p>Isaac pulls his shirt off over his head and then kicks off his pants. Jack forces his face not to show his surprise. "I didn't know your father wrote in the journal, too."</p><p>"Oh, yeah... I forgot to mention..." Jack doesn't like to read his father's parts of the journal. His father had always been such a reserved man around him. John Marston never showed his son his feelings, never told his son about his interpretation of events, so reading his words and discovering the man had deeper thoughts and emotions was uncomfortable to Jack. </p><p>"You said he was murdered," Isaac says, his naked body slipping in against Jack's, "Will you tell me what happened?"</p><p>Jack has never told anyone what happened to John Marston. He has been unable to tell the Trelawny brothers or even Mary-Beth. The events were so awful, so painful, that Jack doesn't like to recall them. But Isaac has been so vulnerable with him, telling the story of what had happened to his mother, and Jack feels it would be unfair to suddenly clamp up. </p><p>So he tells him everything. </p><p>Because Isaac is against him, chest-to-chest, skin-on-skin, and stroking his face the whole time, it is impossible for Jack to go into his numb, writer's state of mind. He cannot pull himself out of his memories and remember the events objectively. Instead, the tears flow freely as he recalls the events of his father's death. He has never cried over his father, always holding back the tears, in the same way that he never allowed himself to cry for the others. Now that he lets the tears fall, they will not stop. Isaac kisses them away as though that's what he is there for. </p><p>"All I ever wanted was for my father to be proud of me," Jack admits to him, "But he always made me feel like I was a disappointment."</p><p>"Jack," Isaac says, "Your father died for you. You and your mother were his whole world. He loved you until his last breath." </p><p>"I wish he had told me," Jack whispers, "I just wanted to hear it..."</p><p>"You can tell how he feels from the journal. John Marston wasn't as good with words as Arthur Morgan was," Isaac says.</p><p>"He wasn't as good with drawing, either," Jack replies.</p><p>The two men laugh, and it feels good. Jack is astonished that it feels good. He presses his mouth to Isaac's and kisses him hard.</p><p>Then they're kissing in that long, slow way again. Jack is glad that his hands can roam Isaac's bare chest and back without fabric in the way. His shoulders are so big, and, when Jack clings to them, he feels safe. Isaac's fingers slip into Jack's jeans, gripping the flesh of his ass, and Jack shudders - he just wants Isaac to touch him everywhere. </p><p>"Would you like to -"</p><p>"<em>Yes</em>," Jack says. His tone is urgent. He knows what he's agreeing to, and, of course, he is nervous, but he has never wanted anything so badly.</p><p>"Do you have lube?" Isaac asks.</p><p>The question flusters Jack, who has never been asked that before. But he says, stammering a little, "There's Vaseline in the drawer in my room."</p><p>Before he can offer to fetch it, Isaac is gone. Jack has just tugged his jeans off, when Isaac returns. There is a moment where Jack stands above the bed, admiring with tenderness the way Jack sprawls there naked for him. Then he climbs back onto the mattress, and their thighs touch for the first time. It makes each of them shiver in lust. He opens the glass jar and slips his fingers in, and Jack must look away. </p><p>"Just lie on your belly," Isaac tells him, and Jack is relieved that is all he has to do. He's sure he doesn't know enough about this to get anything going without Isaac's help. He rolls over, pushing his face into the pillows, and he hears Isaac whisper behind him, "Good boy, now, <em>relax.</em>"</p><p>There it is again. <em>Good boy. </em>It gets Jack going each time. But it's hard to relax. In fact, his whole body is a tightly-wound bundle of nerves. His heart is racing so fast in his chest that it's making him sick. Then Isaac is kissing him again, on his neck and shoulders, and Jack sighs. Little by little, the tension leaves his muscles. Isaac's mouth leaves a hot, wet trail across his skin. He sighs into the pillow, trying to focus on the way Isaac's tongue feels. </p><p>Isaac's finger, slick with Vaseline, pushes into him. Jack tenses against the bed, his fingers turning into claws against the pillow. He smears the stuff inside of him, and it leaves Jack feeling vulgar and filthy, but he <em>likes </em>it. His hips raise off the bed and take Isaac again, two fingers this time. Isaac begins to move in, then out, then in again - finding a rhythm that leaves Jack panting. Between his legs, his growing erection digs into the mattress, seeking someplace to go. </p><p>"Oh, yes, Jack," Isaac growls, "Look how loose you are for me. Such a good little whore."</p><p>Jack gnashes his teeth into the pillowcase, giving a whimper. Isaac's fingers are spreading him, stroking him, and Jack can feel his pulse in his cock. It's almost agony. "<em>Isaac..."  </em>he begs him.</p><p>Isaac moves in, using his knees to part Jack's thighs. His fingers have Jack so stretched, so wet, and so <em>hungry, </em>that takes just one single push of his hips to enter him, and that delicious friction draws a moan from his throat that he's sure the whole world can hear. Jack is sobbing into the pillow, using it to stifle his noise. "Don't make me take that thing away from you, Jack," Isaac warns him, "I want to hear you scream."</p><p>It is the opposite of before. Their kissing and Isaac's sucking had been a slow, beautiful eternity. This is nothing like that. It is fast, frenzied, and nasty. Isaac drills into him like a machine. Those massive shoulders are perfectly toned for the work of supporting his thrusting hips. At first, Jack bites into the pillow and swallows back his reactions, but he wants to please Isaac, he wants to give the man everything he wants. It's against his private nature, but he lets it all out. The whole house seems to shake with the volume of his moans and cries. Isaac just fucks him harder, fueled by the thrill of drawing more from the man beneath him. There is something aggressive and hostile about it all.</p><p>"Isaac!" he gasps.</p><p>"Tell me what you want, Jack," Isaac growls into his ear.</p><p>Jack can hardly think of a response. His brain is being rattled around inside his skull by the force of Isaac's hips, and there's drool running down his chin, and he's sure he's being turned into a right idiot because of over-stimulation. Will he ever be the same again? But the answer comes out of him, unexpected, "I want to be your good boy!</p><p>"Oh, you are good," Isaac assures him, "You're so good. You're so fucking tight for me, Jack. Do you love my cock?"</p><p>"I love your cock!"</p><p>"Mmm... Good boy..."</p><p>Isaac's sex fills him like a fire. Jack has never imagined sensations like this. The old bed springs are screaming under their weight, and Jack is screaming under Isaac. He raises his hips up to meet Isaacs thrusts, and the head of Isaac's cock is slamming into his insides, sending sparks through his nerves that are each like the strike of a match. His orgasm hits him before he's ready - he is thrown violently off the edge, into near-insanity of pleasure. With a sob, he shoots thread after thread of cum into the quilt beneath him before crumpling to pieces beneath Isaac, sweaty and shaking.</p><p>Isaac continues the rock of his hips, but Jack can't take anymore pleasure, and his body is arching away from Isaac now, his whimpers more of discomfort than pleasure. So Isaac slides free, his cock still red and bulbous and throbbing for release. He is disappointed, but not surprised. He had assumed that taking care of Jack earlier would help him last longer, but apparently his virgin body was too starved for touch.</p><p>Jack rolls over to face him, his skin glistening with sweat. He looks so content down there that Isaac doesn't mind he was denied his own climax. "You didn't finish," Jack says.</p><p>"It's okay," Isaac tells him, collapsing beside him on the sticky mattress.</p><p>"No, it ain't," Jack said, "Let me take care of you."</p><p>Isaac is certainly not about to protest. He watches as Jack crawls down the bed and settles in between his legs. "Don't feel like you owe me something, Jack."</p><p>"That's not why," Jack snaps at him, "I <em>want </em>to do this."</p><p>For several seconds, he can only stare. He's never been so close to another man's sex before, and it's the most fascinating thing he's ever seen. Isaac's cock is as huge as the man himself is. He reaches for one of their discarded shirts and dries the thing from base to head, wiping off most of the Vaseline. Then Jack wraps his palm around it, and he feels it give a twitch. He wants to draw more reactions like that from this man, so he decides to be brave. He flattens his tongue against the base and licks, following the central vein all the way up to the head. Isaac melts a bit into the bed, his eyelids fluttering. </p><p>Yes, Jack likes pleasing him very much. Maybe it is just the aftershocks of pleasure that are clouding his judgement, but he feels certain he can use his mouth to get Isaac to cum, and then he will swallow every last drop of it just to show the man that he can. So he wraps his lips over his teeth, because he doesn't want to accidentally bite Isaac, and then he takes as much of him into his mouth as will fit. </p><p>He feels Isaac's legs quiver against him, and he purrs with happiness. The vibrations make Isaac lurch off the bed. "Oh, fuck, yes," he hisses, and Jack responds by purring some more.</p><p>He can't take Isaac into his throat as deep as he imagined; Isaac is just too big. He can, however, continue this humming trick, and he can use his tongue to massage the underside of the head, and he can pump the base of his shaft with his fist at the same time, and...</p><p>"Fuck, Jack," Isaac whimpers, suddenly looking so fragile, like he could break apart at any instant.</p><p>Before Jack knows it, Isaac is shuddering with every stroke of his tongue. He can feel the way his body tightens, like a spring about to release. Jack can't help but smile around that cock and fill with a sense of accomplishment. He continues to suck him, all the while listening to the man moan nonsense to himself. Jack takes him deeper. There's saliva all over his face, and his eyes tear up as his throat struggles, but he refuses to give up or slow down.</p><p>"I'm going to cum!" Isaac warns him, and he grabs a fistful of Jack's hair to try and pull him off his cock, but Jack will not release him, and so the flood of ejaculate fills his mouth and throat in warm, viscous waves. Jack makes sure to suck him dry, and Isaac is convulsing beneath him, unable to take anymore. When he's sure he's milked it all, he pulls away and wipes his face on the back of his arm, looking proud of himself. Isaac is so relieved to be released, all he can do is go lifeless in the bed, only his chest moving as it rises and falls, trying to catch his breath.</p><p>"I like you, Jack Marston," Isaac laughs. He is too weak to even lift his head up.</p><p>"I like you, too, Isaac Morgan," Jack says. He climbs back up into place beside Isaac. Their bodies are hot and sticky, but Isaac drapes an arm across Jack's chest. Jack likes how the gesture makes him feel <em>claimed </em>somehow. "I'm real tired," he adds.</p><p>"I am, too," Isaac tells him, and he smiles up at the ceiling as Jack curls in against his side, "Thanks for letting me read the journal. Thanks for <em>everything, </em>really."</p><p>"No, thank you," Jack says, "Really. I needed this."</p><p>"Yeah," Isaac agrees, "I don't think I've ever met someone who needed to get fucked in the ass more than you."</p><p>Jack snorts in laughter and slaps a hand on Isaac's sweaty, furry chest, "No, you big idiot. I mean that I needed someone to talk to. Someone to share this all with. Really. It's more important to me than you'll ever know."</p><p>Isaac takes Jack's hand in his own and weaves their fingers together. He brings it to his lips, kissing Jack's knuckles. "Any time, Jack."</p><p>The moment feels so surreal. Maybe the whole day is a dream? If so, it's been the best dream of his life. He's sorry it will have to eventually end. He knows that, come dawn, Isaac will have to go back to his own life, and he will be left on this ranch with the ghosts of his family. For the remaining hours of this night, he can pretend that this is his love story. Some day, he can write a book about Jack Marston and Isaac Morgan and give them the happy ending he longs to make real.</p>
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